Broken
by nmd529
Summary: Molly Harper has always been isolated-from her classmates in college, who were unable to accept her social oddities, to her professors, who were consistently blown away by the brilliance she possessed. Now, in a zombie apocalypse, why should things change? That is, until a crossbow-wielding stranger pulls her into his camp, introducing her to friendship, family, and love.
1. Chapter One

**As I said in my previously abandoned story, here is my brand new story. I won't say much, just that I only own Molly Harper, her family, and Koda. The cover image was made by the incredible Chocolate_Frog from TDA. Hope you all enjoy. **

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"Alright, class, that's it for today. Have a good weekend—don't forget to finish your reading!"

As soon as Obstetric Ultrasonography concluded, most of my classmates (the class had been reduced considerably that day, probably due to that rash of flu breakouts this week) hastily threw their belongings into their bags and practically bolted out of the door. They may have been graduate students, but it was almost the weekend—no matter how dedicated you were, the Friday bug could always get a bite out of you. In the blink of an eye, the classroom was empty, besides Professor Andrews and me.

I had no honest reason to rush out of that room. To be honest, it was one of my favorite classrooms in all of Patton Hall; the cement walls were lined with various diagrams of fetus' and sonograms. With every glance, your eyes were ultimately attacked with books, ranging from dictionaries to basic gynecology textbooks to complicated obstetric encyclopedias. The half of the room that wasn't taken up by bookcases was covered with ceiling-high windows; during the middle of the day, when the sun was brutally beating down upon the outskirts of Atlanta, it would become sweltering inside the classroom. For most of the students, it was unbearable. I, on the other hand, couldn't get enough of it.

Making sure to take my time, I neatly bundled my handwritten notes into my color-coded binder, stowed that and my spotless textbooks away in my backpack, and slowly got to my feet. As I passed by Professor Andrews' desk, I expected the middle-aged blonde to simply nod at me before going back to grading her papers. Just a few more steps until my own weekend would begin, and I would finally be able to visit my mother.

"Miss Harper—wait a second, will you?"

I halted immediately at Andrews' voice, biting my lip anxiously as I turned back to her. "Yes, Professor?" I asked her as she approached me with a packet of papers clutched in her hands.

Professor Andrews was one of those instructors who, no matter how stern she was, instantly earned your respect. By first appearances, she seemed rather frightening—from her dark steely gaze to her imposing height, she was the epitome of a great mentor. Her extraordinary resume could have rivaled any of the professors at Emory University, and she had a remarkable way of inspiring her students to achieve their best. It was another reason why I enjoyed her class the most—I aspired nothing more than find some way to prove myself to her.

"I took the pleasure of grading your exam just before class," said Andrews, glancing down at the papers she still held. "I must say, I was quite impressed—you're the first person to ever earn a perfect score on it."

"R-really?" I couldn't help but sputter. Sure, I normally did fairly well on my schoolwork, but I never actually expected to receive a perfect score on anything.

"Yes," replied Professor Andrews, appearing mildly surprised by my reaction. "In particular, your essay on the inaccuracy of discerning a fetus' sex before 13 weeks was excellent. I'll be using it as an example for the rest of your classmates on Monday; hopefully they'll take quite a few lessons from it." At my embarrassed grin, she added, "I figured I'd tell you now, so you can at least boast about it to your family this weekend."

"I definitely will," I beamed up at Professor Andrews, delicately taking my exam from her. "Thank you, Professor."

She nodded, which I took for a dismissal. As I slowly began to retreat, my professor added, "Another thing, Harper. You should have some more confidence in your work; you're one of the brightest students in your class—I've heard nothing but the best from the rest of your professors—but you don't seem to realize it. To be the best, Molly, you need to be confident in your abilities. If you do that, you'll be unstoppable."

Nodding, I replied, "I'll do my best, Professor—I can promise you that."

The corners of Andrews' mouth seemed to turn up for just a moment before they settled into their usual flat line. She turned to return to her desk, and I took the opportunity to, after hastily wishing her a wonderful weekend, hurry out of the classroom. The first thought that came to my mind was not Professor Andrews' lecture, nor that the weekend was about to begin. Instead, I was too busy worrying about how much I had left to do.

* * *

When people think of college, they automatically imagine arrogant fraternities, thrilling parties, and underage drinking. They envision smiling and laughing with friends, lovers, and everything in between. They snort at the thought of actually attending class, let alone working to achieve their very best. To these people, college was all about eternal friendships and unforgettable memories, and the occasional hangover.

For me, as a graduate student majoring in Obstetrics and Gynecology, I didn't experience any of this. There was no raves, no waking up in a stranger's bed, no laughing off work. Every morning, like clockwork, I was up at five o'clock, constantly offering myself enough time to be the first student to arrive for class. Instead of chatting with my classmates during breaks, I had my light-brown-haired head buried in a textbook, desperate to get even more ahead in my readings. Throughout mealtimes, I always sat alone, a book—normally set in the Victorian era—in hand and desperately trying to avoid the taste of the gruesome cafeteria food. At night, after three hours of homework and another two for studying, I was curled up in bed, fast asleep, ready to take on the next day.

Thus was my first seven and a half years at Emory University—I had virtually no friends, isolated from my classmates and even some of my more lax professors. It wasn't from shyness, but more from my disinterest in the immaturity of people my own age. My only source of socialization, besides class, was with my mother, who I talked to three times a day. She was my ultimate best friend, constantly whispering encouragement in my ear as she helped guide me through my quest to fulfill my dream of earning my degree. If it wasn't for her, I'm not sure if I would have even survived my time at college (you'll soon find the irony in these words as my story continues).

My seclusion at Emory was the reason why I was not giggling with my friends about any weekend plans that Friday afternoon. Instead, I was busy packing most of my belongings—which wasn't much—into my suitcase and preparing for my hour-long trip my parents' home in Cumming. It seemed like a good idea to keep to myself that day—everyone seemed to be on edge. It was probably from the flu that seemed to be floating around Emory; it seemed everyone was holed up in bed with a fever.

After an hour of stowing as many books and textbooks into my backpack and suitcase as possible, I set off, alone, out of my room, laden down with my possessions and already beginning to sweat from the sticky Atlanta heat. As soon as my car was full, I began my drive to Cumming—there was a slight delay from the rash of people desperate to leave the University for some reason.

As was tradition, I pulled my phone out of my purse and dialed my mother. As soon as I heard the click of her phone being answered, I didn't wait for her to be the first to speak. "Just left Emory," I said without a greeting. "I'll hopefully be there in an hour or two, depending on this traffic."

"Alright, darling," came my mother's musical voice. "Be careful driving, okay?"

"I always do," I replied with a smile. "How are you two doing?"

"Well, I'm alright," said my mom. "But your step-father seems to be coming down with something; he's been feverish all day. If he wasn't such a stubborn fool, he'd be at the doctor's at this very moment."

"I'm fine!" I vaguely heard Chris, my step-father, shouting in the background. "Honestly, woman, you'd think I was dying from the plague or something."

"Idiot," my mother mumbled in my ear, causing a laugh to tumble from my lips. "How was class, Molly? Any word on that exam you took?"

"Perfect score," I told her, an infectious grin sprouting on my lips. "And Professor Andrews is going to use my essay as an example for the rest of the class on Monday."

"Oh, that's wonderful!" exclaimed my mother happily. "We'll just have to celebrate when you get home. Darling, I told you I had a feeling you'd do brilliantly on that test. It's hardly a surprise, of course—"

"Thanks Mom," I said. "Well, I better go—"

"Of course," said Mom, and I could easily see her nodding away. "Well, drive safely, and hurry home, yes? To be honest, I could use a break from your step-father—"

"I heard that!"

I continued to laugh and, after exchanging "I love you"s with my mom, hung up. To be honest, she and Chris were the only people I truly felt comfortable enough with to be myself. Even during high school, I had shied away from going out with friends to the mall or the movies, and instead spent most of my time with my parents. I had caught their whispers of concerns of how I never had any girlfriends spending the night, or a boyfriend kissing me good night at the front door—it was always just me, either sitting on our front porch with my nose in a book or lounging on the couch with them as we all enjoyed a movie. For me, it was perfect—to them, it was another source of apprehension for my well-being.

The drive to my parents' house was a rather odd one. For one, there was virtually no traffic leaving Atlanta, despite it being rush hour on a Friday afternoon. That was inconceivable in Atlanta; instead, all of the cars were jammed back in the other direction. For some reason, it seemed everyone was desperate to get back into the city. Perhaps there was a baseball game that night—I was hardly interested in sports, so I didn't exactly have the Braves schedule memorized yet.

Another peculiarity was, when I decided to check the radio to see where all of the traffic leaving Atlanta had vanished to, that none of the stations seemed to be working. With every turn of the dial, I was only privy to obnoxious static. Finally, after what seemed like the tenth radio station that was out of service, I turned the entire radio off, frustrated with my lack of discoveries. I couldn't help but check the date on my watch—surely it must have been Friday 13th? But, nope, it was only August 5th.

The one abnormality that should have truly made me begin to doubt what was happening was the army jets that were rocketing through the darkening sky, eventually disappearing into the miles and miles of trees. Surely something should have clicked inside of me to stop the car and call my mother, to figure out what on Earth was going on? But I continued to chug along, telling myself that nothing was wrong, that everything would be just fine.

Perhaps you are calling me foolish or naïve. I like to believe that I was just desperate to see my parents, to have them promise me that these oddities were absolutely nothing to worry about, that I was safe as long as I was within their reach. No matter how old you are, there is nothing more reassuring than a mother's soothing words to her rattled daughter.

As the streetlamps began to vanish and darkness overtook the road, my eyes began to droop. For some reason, I had trouble sleeping that night before; it was certainly biting me during this night as I struggled to keep myself awake. Of course, I had no radio to play, as, after I checked once more, the stations were all still down. I only had my headlights and the loud hum of my engine. As daydreams of home, of the roaring fireplace and mug of hot tea awaiting my arrival, filled my mind, my eyelids continued to become heavier and heavier, until it seemed sleep…was…inevitable…

_BAM_

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**Alright, so I left you all with a bit of a cliffhanger. What do you all think? I hope you all enjoyed this, as well as my new character. Don't forget to leave a review!**


	2. Chapter Two

**I'd like to thank all of my readers for their lovely reviews (: I'm glad you guy enjoyed the first chapter so far. As always, I only own Molly Harper, her family, and Koda. Just so you know, this chapter is not for the faint of heart—there is violence and very dark material within this, so please read at your own risk. I don't mean to offend my readers, I just wanted to paint a clear picture of what Molly was suffering through. I didn't want to wait too long for the next update, so here it is:**

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_Scratch, scratch_

A chill ran through my bones, a slight breeze ruffling my hair as I slowly came to. I squirmed in my car seat, groaning at the throbbing beginning to envelop my entire left temple. My fingers reached to feel for a bump on my head, and returned to me, stained with blood.

_Scratch, scratch_

I blinked my eyes, trying to find where I was, to recall what had happened. My eyes were only met with darkness, pierced by the dim glow of my car's headlights. A smashed railing was all that was protecting my car from tipping down into a deep, narrow ditch. That's what the crash had come from—I had been too busy trying not to fall asleep that I hadn't felt the car slowly attracting to the side of the road.

_Scratch, scratch_

A frown played on my lips at the odd scratching that continued to permeate the air. What on earth was making that strange noise? I glanced all around my car, searching for the source, but was met with nothing. But, still, that scratching prevailed.

_Scratch, scratch_

Just before I decided to step out of the car, I reached over into my glove-box and grabbed a semi-automatic pistol from it, the heavy weapon weighing down in my hand. It was a Colt M1911, a gift from my step-father when I turned 21 years old. "A girl shouldn't be living in the city without protection," Chris had told me with a smile. "And now, you have some."

My mother had hardly approved, but Chris had promised her that he would teach me the interworking of the gun, how to load it, and, ultimately, how to shoot. He hardly wanted to blindly send me out into the world with a gun; no, he taught me everything he knew, patiently taking my countless questions and returning with a clear answer. The man, in the end, saved my life, later on in my years. But we'll come to that later.

Turning the safety off and cocking the gun, I, as instructed before by Chris, took a deep breath and unlocked my door. The cool night air assaulted my face as soon as I stepped out of the car, clutching the gun tightly in my hands. A full moon peeked out from the tree tops, flooding the street with dim light. Crickets continued to chirp, completely unaware of the danger that was spilling into their world. "Hello?" I called out, my trembling voice betraying my fear.

_Scratch, scratch_

Soft breaths were escaping from the front end of my car, along with intermingling groans and growls. Had I hit an animal, a stray dog perhaps? It certainly hadn't been something like a deer—my windshield would have been smashed to pieces if it had.

_Scratch, scratch._

Calming my nerves, I shakily got down onto my knees then my belly, crawling near the undercarriage of my car to catch sight of what on Earth was desperately trying to escape. While it was nearly pitch-black out, the glow from my headlights lit up the road enough for where I could easily see what was hidden under my car—there were no excuses I could make for what I was seeing before me.

A man gazed up at me, a deep gash obliterating half of his horrific face and dried blood streaked on his skin; the entire left part of his jaw was visible, his bared teeth gleaming in the light. His flesh was gray and lifeless, as if he had been left to decompose for weeks. Fingers flashed before my eyes as they scratched away at my car's underside, gnawed on so ferociously that they were now simply bony nubs. As my eyes travelled from his face, they were forced to halt at the lower part of his torso—he had been cut cleanly in half, his blood staining the pavement under my feet. His legs lay a few feet from him, still twitching.

I turned away from the man—the thing, whatever it was—and tried to swallow the bile burning my throat, wiping away the cold sweat on my brow. As I did, I caught sight of a human-sized hole in my front bumper, probably where I had hit the man as I careened towards the railing. He must have crawled his way out of the trap, and fallen onto the pavement. There he lay now, growling at the sight of me and stretching his fingers out to reach me, for help or for something else, I wasn't sure.

As I shook my head, trying to control my racing thoughts, a hand grasped my shoulder, fingers bruising my pale skin. I instantly turned, my gun slipping from my sweaty palms and skidding a couple feet away from me.

What stood before me was quite possibly as horrific as the man that continued to writhe underneath my car. A woman towered over me, nearly six feet on her bare feet. Her pale hair was stringy and stuck to her ashen face, her bloodshot eyes nearly black with hunger. Her teeth were bared, tinged with fresh blood and nearly glowing in the moonlight; hands reached out, grasping for me as she growled viciously, her tongue lusciously licking her lips. There was only emotion flashing across her face—craving, desire.

A scream ripped through me as I hastily backed away from her, tripping over my own feet and stumbling onto my backside. I hurried to back up as she staggered towards me, desperate to escape her clutches. Gravel scraped my palms and stuck to my jeans as I retreated from this monstrous attacker. She lunged forward, just barely missing the slice of pale ankle that peaked out from my jeans. She was close now, so close to digging her fingers into me and devouring my flesh. For I knew that was what she wanted—when you're being attacked so savagely, it's simple to figure out what drove their rage.

My fingers met with metal; without even a second thought, I grasped the gun in my hands, pointed it straight at this monstrosity's head, and pulled the trigger. One, two bullets lodged into her skull, and she instantly halted; in the blink of an eye, she collapsed onto the ground, dead.

Petrified breaths continued escape my throat as I shakily put the gun down by my side. I ducked my head down, desperate to control my heartbeat and the cold sweat that had broken out across my body. I had just killed a human being, something that had once lived and breathed just as I had. Whatever she had become, I had just took her life into my hands and squashed it. That was, even for me, a very difficult idea to process.

As I sat upon the pavement, I closed my eyes and tried to envision my mother's face, her hand clasping mine as her dark eyes meet mine, unafraid of what would be staring back at her. Her arms encircling me, drawing me close and whispering into my ear that, in the end, everything would be alright, that she'd keep me safe. Chris would make some stupid joke that would make all of us giggle and the tension would dissipate, leaving our tightly-knit family behind. Yes, that was exactly what I needed

Without any hesitation, I took ahold of my gun and returned to my feet. My knees nearly buckled, but I caught myself from collapsing. Shaking my head at my weakness, I stumbled into my car and reversed away from the car railing; ignoring the moaning abomination that had been trapped under my car, I raced off into the night, leaving the undead in my dust.

* * *

"Mom?"

I closed the heavy, wooden front door behind me, making sure to fasten the deadbolt back in place. Ever since I was a little girl and begun fleeing the house on my own, my mother had consistently warned me of the dangers of leaving the door unlocked. Burglars could try to steal our possessions, murderers might sneak in and snuff out our lives. For me, it had seemed rather unlikely; our house was surrounded by woods and nearly impossible to even catch a glimpse of from the main road. But, of course, whenever I tried to reason with my mother, she would just tell me that, the minute you try to laugh off danger, it will come back to bite you.

There was no answer to my calls, despite the lights that were spilling out of the kitchen and living room. The television flickered in the corner, silently flashing images of a reporter speaking in downtown Atlanta. His face was twisted in fear and horror as he gazed at something behind the camera, before the entire screen became nothing but static.

Swallowing my fear, I took a couple steps into the kitchen, calling out, "Mom? Chris? Are you guys here?"

A sound in the kitchen forced me to freeze; something falling and clattering to the floor behind the island, breaking the still silence that had once occupied the entire household. Taking a slow, deep breath, I pointed my gun ahead of me and slowly, step by step, approached the kitchen. My feet quivered as I neared the island centered in the room. My narrowed eyes never left it, too frightened to dare to glance around my surroundings—if I had, I would have noticed the backdoor had been left wide open, clear to allow anyone—or anything—to venture inside.

Something heavy threw itself upon me, causing my finger to press upon the trigger; a shot bolted into the person's leg, but they only relented slightly. The gun spilled from my fingers, clattering onto the pale linoleum as I followed it to the ground. The person, his skin beige and eyes wide with desire, tackled me, his fingers clawing at my arms. His movements were clumsy though; his nails—no, his claws—barely brushed against my flesh before I threw him off of me, sending him crashing into the refrigerator.

I staggered to my feet, shaking away the cobwebs out of my head; I was near the sink now, a set of knives only inches from my reach. Ignoring the throbbing in the back of my head, I hastily tried to search for my gun, desperate to find it before the man got back to his feet. Before I could locate it, the man was up and on his feet, limping towards me once more. Adrenaline set in—my fingers gripped the chef's knife resting in the wooden holder and held the blade in front of me, trying vainly to scare the man off.

As expected, the plan failed. He bounded towards me, leaving me no choice but to stab the blade into his chest, directly where his heart was. He stumbled backwards, glancing down at the knife sticking out of him as if a ladybug had just landed atop his shirt. As if sneering down at me, the man lumbered after me, unfazed by the knife continuing to protrude from him.

I threw myself out of his path, falling to the floor once more and finding my gun gleaming up at me. Instantly taking ahold of it, I aimed it squarely at the man's forehead and shot him three times, until his flesh was nothing but mush as he fell backwards like a lump.

My hand slammed onto the counter as I pulled myself up, gazing down in horror at the second person I had managed to kill. Clearly, this was no person, not anymore—with the way he kept trying to attack me, no matter the injuries inflicted upon him, it was proven to me that these strange beings were not human, not living. It didn't matter that his clothes sparked a distant memory in my mind, nor that a familiar tattoo of a star was etched into his wrist…

"Chris," I gasped, tears tumbling down my cheeks and staining my clothes. "Oh, Chris."

I fell to my knees, trying to grasp his cold hand, to beg him for forgiveness. I had just murdered my step-father in cold blood—no, I firmly corrected myself. No, this was not Chris, not anymore—Chris would never have attacked me so, nor could he sustain a knife to the chest and continue to harass me. No, this was some demon that had possessed Chris' body, releasing his soul and replacing it with something far more sinister than I had ever witnessed. My mother…

I halted, blood beginning to rush through my ears as I scrambled back to my feet and tore up the staircase. Sprinting to my mother's bedroom, heart racing, I wasn't sure what to expect, what I would find. Nothing in the world could have prepared for what met me in that room.

The sheets were covered with blood, seeping all the way into lowest of the mattress as the endless flood of blood spilled over onto the wood floors. My mother lay in the center of the king-sized bed, her eyes wide and inert as she gazed lifelessly up at the ceiling. Chunks of flesh had been ripped from her arms, legs, and chest, as if someone had been gnawing on her. Four gashes in the shape of claws raked down from her right temple to her shoulder, blood trickling slowly from the deep wound.

"Mama," was all I was able to hoarsely whisper as I hobbled to her bedside, my entire body trembling in fear and anguish. A shaking hand reached up to brush away her light brown hair, damp with blood, away from her gray face. "Mama, I'm so sorry," I breathed in her ear, my voice unsteady as sobs threatened to escape me. My face was soaked with tears, but I took no notice of them; all I felt was nothing, absolutely nothing. "I should have protected you," I told her softly. "I-I should have been here. Please, Mama, forgive me."

The body upon the bed slowly, very slowly began to stir. My breath caught in my throat as her eyes seemed to be replenished with light. My mother's body took in a shuddering breath, an all-too familiar growl issuing from her throat. She began to sit up, her movements sluggish, as if being woken from a long, deep sleep.

It was then that I knew exactly what I needed to do. Oh yes, the thought crept into my mind, muttering in my ear what was required of me, my gun still clasped in my fingers. It seemed to grow heavier in my palm as I listlessly raised my hand and pressed it into my mother's temple. "I love you, Mama," I told her, shaking voice still thick with emotion. "I'm sorry."

My finger pulled the trigger once more, filling the bedroom with an explosive bang. My mother's lifeless body fell back onto her pillows, now motionless forever.

Knees failed me; I slipped to the floor, leaning against wall as I allowed my grief to overtake me. Sobs overtook my body, one by one, as I clutched my head in my hands, my fingers still stained with the blood of my parents. How could I go on? Where could I possibly go? I had no one, alone in a world that seemed to be slipping from my grasp. No one to turn to, no one to trust. It was a scary thought, one that gripped my chin and turned my bloodshot eyes to the gun still clutched in my hand.

It's truly frightening to wonder what could drive a person to consider taking their own life. It is not a sign of weakness, but of hopelessness, of not having anything to hold onto, to live for. Desperation and loneliness is what forces the hand of a human being to shove a gun into their mouth and pull the trigger. Those are the forces that drove me to put that gun through my lips and close my eyes. It would all go away, all that pain and anguish, with just one simple movement. It was all so easy that it seemed foolish not to go through with it. What did I have left to live for? Who would truly care if I pulled this trigger and escaped this nightmare that would never end?

Footsteps reverberated through the house, the strange sound of claws scratching across the hard wood floors flooding my ears. My hand trembled as the person scraped their way up the staircase and made their slow way through the hallway just outside of my mother's bedroom. Clenching my eyes shut, I tried to will myself to pull the trigger, to find the strength within to end this all. The claws continued into the bedroom, until silence replaced the scratching.

As the silence continued to pick away at my skin, frustrating me enough to open my eyes once more, I turned to the doorway, only to be met with a great dog. His legs were muscled and long, his fur-coat the rough color of charcoal. From his strong shape, I'd guess that he had at least some wolf blood rushing through his veins. Bright blue eyes scrutinized me, unblinking as he seemed to clench my insides and capture every thought, every memory of my being.

Oh so slowly the dog approached me, each step with deliberate as his eyes continued to gaze deep into mine. He finally broke his stare as he ducked his head down, tucking his head into my unused palm and brushing his soft pelt against me. Tears dripped down my cheeks as I released the gun, letting it tumble to the floor. My fingers dug into his fur, pressing his beautiful head to my chest as I let out a choked sob. "Alright," I whispered to him, breaking the embrace and nodding into his eyes.

I did not die that night, thanks to this unfamiliar dog. He saved my life, this time and countless times afterwards. As these words continue to be written, those stories will be told and most likely forgotten with time. For now, I will tell you this was the beginning of my journey, of my evolution. This was where _I_ truly began.

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**And that is it for this chapter. Thank you very much for reading, and don't forget to leave a review!**


	3. Chapter Three

**Thank you all for your growing interest in this story, and your reviews. Please keep them coming! Without further ado, here is chapter three:**

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Preparing for a long journey has always been an easy task for me. It was simple to predict the articles of clothing I would need, the shoes I would have to bring, the books that would help me at least somewhat enjoy the trip. I was what you could call a minimalist; even the walls of my dorm room had been kept bare, not sullied with pictures or posters or useless reminders of memories that I would never need. If I didn't need it, I didn't have it. It was a simple rule to live by, and one I stuck to for many years.

And yet, as I was sitting in my old room, searching for belongings to cram into my backpack, I couldn't seem to let go of some of the most useless possessions I had. A violet and silver dream catcher that my mother had bought for me at the county fair struggled to be released from my fingertips until I was forced to shove it into my bag. An empty picture frame that Chris had given me on my last birthday somehow managed to slide its way into my possessions, right in between two of my obstetrics textbooks. For some reason, I couldn't bring myself to let go of those damn books; even though they would continuously weigh me down, it would be even more painful to let them go.

As I was zipping up my backpack, tying my boots, and even desperately trying to take in some calming breaths, the dog that had stumbled upon me only minutes before sat motionless in the corner of my room, gazing at me with unwavering eyes. As I had studied him earlier, I had released any doubt in my mind that I had ever seen him before. Sure, my parents' neighbors had their own family dogs, but those were golden retrievers and German shepherds. This dog clearly had some wolf inside of him, along with possibly some Husky. He was, by no means, a hideous dog; his charcoal pelt was beautiful and smooth, his blue eyes clear and healthy. Who his owner was, I wasn't sure; all I knew was that this dog obviously attached himself to me somehow, to the point where he had even helped save my life.

Once I was ready to leave, I glanced back at the dog that was continuing to watch me. He surely had to have a name; at, at the very least, I'd have to give him one. I couldn't really go around calling him "Dog" now, could I? It was then that my eyes spied the black collar hanging around his neck, silver tags hidden within his dark fur. I slowly approached him, reaching my fingers out for him to sniff. Obediently he smelled my hand and, after a moment, affectionately pressed his cold nose into my palm. As I scratched behind his ears, I checked the metal tag hanging from his collar and read the one word engraved into the silver: Koda.

"Koda?" I asked him now. As if automatic, his furry tail began to excitedly beat against the hard wood. "I suppose your name is Koda then," I couldn't help but grin down at him as I straightened up and gave his head one last pat. "Are you ready for a trip, Koda?"

Koda was instantly on his paws, nearing the door with his intense gaze still watching me. I slung my backpack over my shoulder, along with another long, black bag filled with firearms and ammo that I had ransacked from Chris' safe. He had been collecting various handguns, rifles, and knives over the years and keeping them locked away in his safe; if I was going to go out into a world that was so cold and unfamiliar, I needed some sort of protection. This was the best that I was going to get.

As I slipped out of my bedroom, I tried so hard to divert my eyes from my mother's bedroom. Her body no longer lay there; I had buried both her and my step-father in our backyard, using my fingertips to mark a cross over both of their graves. They now lay beside one another, only inches away from my mother's prized rose garden.

That rose garden was the epitome of my childhood. When I was a young child, constantly toddling around after my mother every second of every day, I would sit out beside those stunning roses, digging my hands into the soft, cool soil and occasionally even pricking my pudgy fingers on a thorn. My mother would rush out at the sound of my cries and kiss the pain away from my flesh, whispering that everything was alright, everything would be alright.

I hadn't been able to say a single word throughout the silent ceremony, so sure that only sobs would be able to escape my body at that very moment.

I descended down the staircase, Koda close on my heels, hesitating at the sight of a photo album spread out across the coffee table. Tentatively I approached the booklet, content, ignorant faces beaming up at me. My mother must have left it out for my homecoming, thrilled to show me photos that had been instilled into my memory since I was a girl. In the snapshot closest to me, my mother had her soft, flushed cheek pressed against mine, a tiny cupcake spotted with four glowing candles sitting before me. Tears burning my light green eyes, I bundled the photo album into my arms and stuffed into the same bag carrying my weapons. One other book wouldn't kill me, I told myself as I set off to the foyer.

The most difficult part of leaving my childhood home was closing the front door behind me. You'd think it would be stepping over the threshold, wouldn't you? But, for me, it was having to turn the sealed door knob and locking myself out of the only true home I'd ever had. Just before stepping away, I pressed my fingertips to my lips and gently rested them upon the cold wood of the door. Whispering a soft goodbye, I turned on my heel and walked down the front steps, away from the only people I'd ever loved.

Taking a deep breath, I glanced down at Koda, who was watching me closely, waiting for my next move. To be honest, I didn't have one. Sure, the safest method of transportation was probably driving a car; at least it would put some sort of barrier between myself and the monsters that were beginning to roam the streets. But there was only half a tank of gas left in my car, and I didn't trust stopping at any gas station to refill it; who knows what I would encounter along the way?

At that moment, I was eyeing the forest surrounding my house. I had lived there long enough when I was a young child to get the guts to explore their depths; I had even found a spot near a tiny brook to read some of my most favorite books. And now, I was looking to them for some safety from whatever the hell was happening to my world.

"I hope you like the woods, Koda," I told the dog as we began to set off into the forest.

Time was beginning to tick past the early stages of morning; the air was cooler now, crisper and far easier to walk through. My bare arms and legs became rough with goosebumps, the cold metal of my handgun digging into the small of back from its place in the waistband of my shorts. There was barely any light streaming through the high tree tops, so I grew more and more dependent on my flashlight. The ground underneath my boots was hard and sometimes even craggy, forcing me to stumble with the occasional step. My long, thick hair, thankfully tucked away in a tight pony-tail, only snagged in a couple of low-hanging branches.

Koda, on the other hand, was clearly in his element; he maneuvered swiftly through the trees and bushes, charcoal fur flashing sporadically in the glow of my flashlight. When we first began, I was concerned that he might accidentally leave me behind, since I hadn't been hiking in quite a few years; fortunately, Koda would sometimes slow his pace down, glancing over his strong shoulder to make sure that I was still in sight. Say what you want about dogs, but this one was most definitely one of the most intelligent I had ever seen; he was thought more like a person than most of the people I knew.

Hues of rosy pink and violet gradually began to splash against the dark sky, signaling the end of my horrific night. My legs were sore, begging me to please take a rest, and my eyelids weighed me down. Every muscle in my body was beginning to ache, and it was clear that I wasn't exactly in-shape anymore, if I ever had been in the first place.

Breath barely escaping from my lungs, I gasped out to Koda, "Wait. Please, just wait."

Legs trembling, they collapsed out from underneath me; as I barreled to the harsh ground, I felt a sickening crack where the back of my head collided with a rock jutting out towards me. As I began to slip towards darkness, I caught a pair of thick-soled, black boots walking towards me, hesitating at the sight of my slumped-over body. "You've got to be kidding me," a gruff voice mumbled as obscurity overtook me.

* * *

**Alright, so I know this is a bit shorter than most of my chapters. Just hang in there though, okay? Big stuff is coming, I promise! **


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